


Skinwalker

by maggsam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst out the wazoo, Depression, F/M, Love Triangle, Masturbation, Multi, Slow Burn, idk this is dark and inappropriate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggsam/pseuds/maggsam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia knows better than to trust a trickster. But when the Nogistune shows up at her bed in the middle of the night with a sickening proposal, she may have to reconsider. Especially when it meant the possibility of saving Stiles Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You guys! I'm so excited to present a new story I've been working on! Originally I was going to keep this as a one-shot. But if you'd like me to make it a multi-chapter story, let me know in the comments!
> 
> Hopefully I did justice to the Nogitsune. I hope you all love a Void Stiles as much as I do ;)
> 
> xx

Lydia's eyes snapped open, just as she watched his figure crawl through her bedroom window. She felt her heart pound so hard she was positive he would be able to hear it. She wanted to scream in fear, wanted to cry out for him to stay away from her. She wanted to jump out of her skin and run as fast as she could, out of her room and away from her home, away from Beacon Hills and all of the devastation it caused, away from Allison's body currently laying in a morgue, away from everything that hurt. But she didn't.

She watched in horror as he leisurely rose, a dark figure, a wolf in sheep's clothing. He sauntered to her bed painstakingly slow, and she felt his weight dip down the edge of the mattress.

"Do you always break into people's homes at three in the morning?" she whispered, willing her voice not to falter.

"Only the ones that matter." he smirked, face half-cast in shadow. "Babe, don't cry."

She hadn't realized she was. He moved a hand toward her face, pausing in midair as she recoiled away from his touch.

"What do you want." Lydia hissed, steel coating her words. She would be brave. She wouldn't allow him to intimidate her. She needed to be strong, for Stiles.

"Such a brave banshee. You and I, we're cut from the same supernatural cloth, you know." he tilted his head and smiled, eyes dead. She turned her head away from him, breath hitching in her chest, body starting to tremble.

"You and I are nothing alike."

He snickered and reached forward again, taking a piece of Lydia's hair and curling it around his finger.

"You know what I'm talking about. Banshees are dark supernatural creatures, people fear them because they do not understand them. I know you've seen the statistics. I know you feel your mind slowly slipping away." he smiled, moving closer to her. "It's a shame. You have such a beautiful, brilliant mind. And your mind is your own for now...until the voices take over. Then it's only a matter of time till you're just like Meredith, howling away in Eichen for the rest of your life. What a waste. I give you five years."

She slapped his hand away from her hair, momentary fury boiling over fear.

" _Fuck you._ " she spat, quivering with anger. His smile vanished as his eyes sparked with malice. His gaze drifted down to her lips, and she watched as it licked his own.

"Oh I want to." he replied.

"I can't wait to watch Stiles defeat you. I can't wait to see him outsmart you, and I can't wait for Scott to tear you limb from limb."

"Honey, don't be like that." he pouted, sticking out his lower lip.

"Why are you here. What do you want from me?" Lydia seethed, pulling the comforter up to her chest, suddenly freezing in her silk nightgown.

She watched as he stood up, and began to pace her room. It never failed to shock her, how different its body movement was from Stiles. It was sleek, sinister, devoid of humor or life. There was power behind its stride.

"To put it simply," he spoke, "I want you."

Lydia felt her blood run cold. What did he mean by that? Whatever it was, it wasn't good. She needed to protect herself. Desperately, she wished for pepper spray or, she almost laughed at the irony, a baseball bat.

If she distracted the Nogitsune, she could make a break for it. But it was fast, and strong. She would never be able to outrun it fast enough to get to her car. Her mother was away again, leaving Lydia alone in the home. If she screamed, maybe a neighbor would hear, maybe Scott. But again, no one would be fast enough to come and rescue her. Lydia Martin would have to rescue herself.

"Stiles." she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. She wondered if it was possible to die from nerves. She was shaking so hard she could practically feel the bed quake beneath her. There must be someway she could get to him. Some way she could reach out, and maybe Stiles would reach back.

"Stiles, don't let him do this to me."

"Aw Lyds, come on now. What do you think I'm going to do?" he crooned from a shadowy corner. "I won't hurt you. I just want you to listen to my proposal."

Lydia exhaled a shaky breath. She knew better than to trust the trickster, but maybe it was being truthful when it said it wouldn't hurt her. Well, at least maybe not physically.

' _Don't let your guard down, Lydia'_ her conscious whispered, and she steeled herself for what was to come.

"Like I said before, you and I are the same. Just as you and Stiles are one. This means we have an understanding. A common ground."

"We are  _nothing_  alike."

He began to walk back to her, strut back to her. But this time, instead of sitting on the edge of her bed, he crawled over her body, on top of the blankets. Holding himself over her, hovering above.

"Can you look at me and tell me that you don't feel alone? Misunderstood? Can you tell me that there is anyone in this damn town on your level? No. You can't. Because you're better than everyone in this place. And there is a darkness inside you." he paused to lower his torso, and she felt the weight of his body push down onto her own. He placed his forearms on either side of her head, and looked down at her, tilting his head.

"Why do you think you're drawn to these shady characters, like Jackson, the kanima? Or Aiden, the alpha from a rival pack? It's because there is darkness in them that matches your own. You've been in love with Stiles since you first kissed him. So why aren't you with him? You've always rejected Stiles because he's too good for you." he breathed, playing with her hair.

She felt the sting of his words like a slap across the face. It was true. Lydia felt the darkness creep in, ever since her first fugue state. It was like having half a soul. She tried so hard to understand herself, to forgive herself. But she couldn't. She couldn't find it within herself to practice that kind of self love and acceptance. She knew it, and the Nogitsune knew it too.

Lydia turned her face to look into the eyes of the creature above her. His gaze was burning a hole into her own. It was like he wanted her to agree with him. Wanted her to admit a dark confession.

"Are you saying that I'm drawn to you? Are you saying I want to be with you? Because that couldn't be further from the truth. I am in love with  _Stiles_. I am!" she confessed, voice shaking with emotion.

"Stiles, I'm in love with you. I just want you safe."

He watched her confession with a look she couldn't quite read. And then, as if in slow motion, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. They were soft and warm, and felt just like they had when she first kissed him when she tried to stop his panic attack. It was surprising to her how tenderly he kissed her, and even more surprising to her that she was reciprocating. She moved beneath him, and he finally put his full weight on top of her. She sucked in a breath, reveling in the delicious feeling of his body on hers. She kept her eyes closed, trying to imagine Stiles whole and healthy, wanting the moment to be suspended in time forever. He nibbled her bottom lip and she opened her mouth to him, letting the velvet of his tongue trace her plump lips, and dance with her own. The kiss was soft and scorching, and when she finally found the strength to pull away from him, she knew it was a promise of more to come.

"You're such a bad girl, Lydia. Look at you." he crooned, dipping down again to give her lips a final peck.

"Stop." she breathed, turning her head away once more as tears spilled out and rolled down her flushed cheeks. She hated crying in front of this.. _.thing._ She hated feeling weak.

"Look at me." he said, gently grabbing her face with his hand and turning it back to his.

"You and I both know it won't be long until Scott and his pack find me. Originally, that was my plan all along, but plans change."

Lydia's brow furrowed as she digested his words. "What do you mean?"

"Stiles is more powerful than I was initially expecting. Even I would be a fool to not acknowledge that. He's always screaming so loud inside, you see." he smirked, and Lydia's common sense roared back to life, as she struggled to push him off her, repulsed.

"You struggling is such a turn on." he laughed ruthlessly, easily pinning her arms above her head.

"Stiles,  _please_!" Lydia cried, openly sobbing. She was so tired. So, so tired of it all. Of looking over her shoulder every five minutes. Of the relentless voices in her head. Of feeling scared of her own shadow, and jumping at loud noises. She was always so, so scared. She missed the days when all she had to worry about was controlling her popularity. She missed the talks she had with Stiles on his bed, as they bounced ideas off each other. She missed him so deeply it felt like a permanent hole in the center of her chest, that nothing could fill. Not Jackson, not Aiden, not even herself.

"' _Stiles, please_.'" he mocked. "He says please a lot too, you know. Please don't touch her. Please hurt me instead. Leave her alone,  _please, please, please._  I'm so sick of hearing his begging. He's always begging. Always  _screaming_ , like you wouldn't  _believe_."

There was a sharp crack, and it took both Lydia and the Nogitsune a moment to register what just happened. She had slipped out of his grip and slapped him across the face.

She had done it now. The demon stared at her with an almost furious fascination. A watch-and watch-and watch some more curiosity. Lip licking and throat humming. Almost a reverence. Something about it was deeply unsettling, and it made Lydia wish she hadn't struck him in the first place.

"Come with me." he breathed.

"What?!" Lydia replied, shocked.

"Come with me." he repeated again. "I've told you, the plan has changed."

"You're insane!" Lydia cried out, trying fruitlessly to wiggle free from underneath his body. "What the hell are you even talking about?!"

"You're not listening carefully enough, Lydia." he sneered. "You know that I can't be killed, even if the vessel I inhabit is destroyed. They'll kill Stiles trying to kill me. You know it."

She did know it, and it had plagued her every thought.

"That's why I'm giving you this one chance, just once, to come with me, away from Beacon Hills."

"And do what? And go where?! What incentive is there for me to mindlessly follow you to hell and back?!" she snapped, glaring at him through puffy, bloodshot eyes.

"I will not tell you the where, or the what. But your incentive is Stiles. If you come away with me, you will be protecting Stiles from harm."

"Or prolonging his torture!" she growled.

"Perhaps. Or...it could allow you a chance to get through to him." he smirked, sickenly sweet.

"I...I don't understand."

"If you come, you will be closer to reaching Stiles than any of you have been in months. He will be kept safe. And you could use that time to come up with a treatment in that big brain of yours."

Lydia took in his words, head pounding in confusion. The Nogitsune wanted to run away, and take her along. Why on earth would it want her to have a chance at saving Stiles?

' _It doesn't_ ,' her mind thought, whirring furiously as countless scenarios invaded her brain. But it was right. She would be closer to Stiles, and even if it meant turning her back on the pack's plans for 'rescuing' Stiles, it also meant Stiles' preservation. And wasn't that the greater good? But just yesterday, it had killed Allison. It wiped out hundreds of people from the Beacon Hills population. If she went with the Nogitsune, it meant danger. It meant never having to let her guard down, never knowing what sinister plan she would ultimately play a part in. But it also meant having a chance. A chance to reach safely reach Stiles without physical harm. And maybe, even a chance to destroy it.

"If I say yes, I want a promise from you." she whispered, eyes burning into his own.

"What is it, baby?"

"I want no harm to come to myself, and I want no harm to come to my pack. And, I want to see Stiles. I want you to let him surface, once a week for an hour, just so I can see he's still safe and in there."

The Nogitsune tilted his head to the side, considering her proposition. Lydia Martin was a very interesting person. Very interesting. And this little adventure would be a very interesting journey. A very interesting journey indeed.

"No harm to you or your pack. And Stiles comes out to play once a week." he grinned, eyes dull in the moonlight.

"How can I trust your word?"

"I'm a trickster, not a liar." he said bringing his hand up to his chest, feigning offense.

Stiles would hate her if she went with him. Stiles was probably screaming at her not to do it, but she loved him too much to just let him slip away.

"I'm sorry, Stiles. I have to do this." she said, staring into the blank eyes of a stranger wearing the skin of someone she loved.

She watched as a wicked smile curled at the corner of it's mouth.

"Shall we then?" it moved off of her, offering her his hand.

Every nerve in Lydia's body vibrated, willing her not to take it's hand. Not to trust the Nogitsune.  _It will only lead to heartache! it will lead to immeasurable devastation!_

' _It will lead to Stiles._ ' she exhaled, and watched her hand tremble in the moonlight, as if attached to a body that wasn't quite her own.

For a moment they paused, both looking at their entwined hands before finally raising their gaze. They looked at each other in the dark room, standing still with hands held, before vanishing into the night.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HERE! Sorry it took a while, but I had to put a lot of thought into it. Don't fear, the writing mojo is flowing fast and furious now! You may have also noticed I posted a one-shot out of the blue! 'To Lydia' is first person from Lydia's POV. 
> 
> Is anyone else suspicious of MTV's shameless Stydia baiting? Ooo it makes me so pissed...but like...keep it coming....
> 
> Enjoy! xx

_She watches him, sunken in the muck, sea grass dancing delicately across his deserted eyes. There are no bubbles rising to the water's surface from his mouth, slightly agape. Lydia cries out in fear, splashing across the glassy surface of the black lake. She bends down to pick up his hands, desperate to pull him from the watery grave, but he is unmoving. Maybe he's stuck in the mud. Why is he so, so heavy? Frantically panting, she moves again to hook her arms under his armpits, hoisting with a feral grunt. But again, no movement. He didn't even budge an inch. Was she really this weak? Was she really going to relent her efforts, let him drown? Stiles had never given up on her. Not when she poisoned parties, traversed naked and cold for days through the forest reserves, not when she failed to find him, leading his father and the police to an empty basement in Eichen House. Not even when she had time and time again chosen the wrong person to love. She lets out a wild scream of panic. She herself is covered in water now, covered in sloppy, slimy muck, and still, he does not shift a muscle. How long has she been trying to pull him from beneath the surface? Hours? She can't breathe. Heart pounding, blood thrumming in her veins as her eyes water so hard it makes the world blur. He rests underwater, watching her efforts with unseeing eyes. There is nothing but his muted pale skin, palms faced outward in surrender._

_Stiles has given up._

* * *

She jolts awake with a coughing fit, sitting up and gasping for air as her eyes frantically scan a dark room. Her nightgown sticks to her skin, slick with sweat, and she pushes her thick red hair away from her face, unable to catch a good breath. She's in a panic, her body already trembling as she takes in her environment as fast as possible before her eyes fall on him. He's standing in the darkest corner of the room, just watching her. It makes her skin crawl, and she exhales a shaky breath.

So there would be no chance to run now.

Somehow her body knew it was being hunted before her mind caught up. She had unconsciously attempted to flee, but it was fruitless.

Lydia stared into the darkness and the darkness stared back. All six-feet, spidery-fingered, biting smirk, gleaming dark eyes of it. She was afraid to turn her gaze from his, but she willed herself to. He reminded her of when a great, fat spider would appear in her bedroom and she knew she had to find a shoe to kill it, but she was afraid to turn her back to it, lest it run or attack. But he was no prey, he was the predator. She had to find the strength within her, she had to dig deeper than she'd ever dug in her life if she was to escape alive with Stiles in-tow.

He had her in what appeared to be a run-down hotel room. Lydia felt the lumpy mattress creak beneath her as she moved to stand up from the bed.

"Where are we?" she whispered, licking her lips anxiously.

He tilted his head, smiling. "Ah-ah-ah, secrets, Lydia. Secrets."

Maybe they were in some ghost town, or a main-street town in middle-America. He had warned her before she left with him that he would omit the where and why, but it was so disturbing to wake up in a sketchy hotel in god knows where without the slightest inkling of how she got there in the first place. What happened to her during those moments of sleeping and waking? She would have no way of knowing.

Lydia pressed her palm to her heart that was pounding so hard she was sure he could see it pulse beneath her clavicle from across the room. "How did you get me here?"

He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers enthusiastically, "Magic!"

She would get no serious answers out of him.

Lydia moved to get up from the bed, pretending not to notice as her legs quivered and threatened to collapse beneath her, and began to pull the fabric of her dress away from her skin. The way her nightie stuck to her perspiration was humiliating. The silken gown, already scandalous on its own, now obscenely clung to every crevice of her creamy skin. She knew he was watching her, and she didn't want to look over at him, but her curiosity won out. She turned to him and watched with a sickening horror as his eyes raked over her body. He took his time, starting from the tip of her head, down to her eyes where they paused for a strangely long moment before continuing...lips...breasts...stomach...legs...all the way down to her feet, uncertainly standing on dirty carpet. He licked his lips.

It was disturbing to see him look at her in that way. Stiles used to look at her like she was a celestial body, the universe incarnate. There was no reverence in his look now, just fascination and obsession.

She shivered and crossed her arms over her breasts before moving to the only window in the room. It was dusk outside. How long had she been out? And it didn't look like anywhere near Beacon Hills. There were small homes, each a different color, pressed close together like cramped teeth in a gaping mouth. She watched the occasional car drive by. On the sidewalk, box-bodied women carried groceries with one hand, baby on hip. Off in the distance, she could hear Spanish music tinkering delicately in the darkened sky. Where the hell was she? Mexico? Had he crossed the border with her unconscious body? And if so, then how?

"You told me that I wouldn't know much, but I know absolutely nothing. And I'm not okay with that." she suddenly found her voice, and inwardly applauded at how brave she had sounded.

She certainly didn't feel brave at this moment. She hadn't felt brave in a very long time.

Lydia's thoughts wander to Scott, who surely by now knew she was missing. Once she was gone long enough to raise alarm, then it wouldn't take to long for him to put two and two together and connect her disappearance to the nogitsune. But he would think she was taken against her will. He would have no idea that she had voluntarily walked right into the trap.

Scott was brave. Scott always chose the right thing. Had  _she_  chose to do the right thing? Or had she made a grave mistake, a mistake at the expense of the pack? Maybe even at the expense of innocent citizens in Beacon Hills? What if he had left another trick in their absence? One final swan song before exiting into the night. Lydia vehemently shook her head, desperately trying to clear her thoughts of Scott with unseeing-empty eyes, limbs akimbo.

He would find her, and by then, Stiles would return to his body, and the nogitsune would be vanquished. She turns to peek at him from over her shoulder.

He just smiles, lips tight and eyes flashing, a monster in the dark.

"You didn't hurt anyone to get us here, did you?"

"I promised you I wouldn't, didn't I?" he says with bored amusement.

He hadn't though. He had promised no harm to her or her pack. Innocent people on the other hand...

She mentally slapped herself for being so obtuse. Somehow, she would find a way to be sure no harm would come to anyone while she accompanied the nogitsune.

Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder with a huff. "I need a shower. And I need clean clothes. And I need food. I know you think of no one but yourself, but try your best." she snapped, and moved to the bathroom that was sure to be a horror.

He laughs coldly and it stops her in her tracks. "Oh Lydia, I already have all those things for you." He gestures to the bathroom door, and she opens it hesitantly. It has all the utilities of a normal bathroom, albeit more cramped and the lighting was dim, but it exceeded her expectations. And hanging on the door, a white cotton dress with leather sandals below, and a new toothbrush near the sink. She whipped around to look at him quizzically.

Again, he wiggled his fingers,  _Magic_. She rolled her eyes.

"If I'm wearing a dead-girl's clothing, I'll kill you myself." Lydia hissed and slammed the bathroom door, making sure to lock it behind her.

* * *

The night air was heavy, and Lydia was glad her hair was cool and wet in the heat. It surprised her when he suggested they roam the town for dinner, but she was too hungry and anxious to leave the small room to think much of it. Did he even eat real food? She wasn't quite sure. He needed fuel to sustain himself, but did he only feed off of strife and chaos? If he was inhabiting Stiles' body, surely it needed human sustenance as well to survive. (Though since he had invaded Stiles, it was like looking at a walking, talking corpse).

She looked over at him by her side, deepset, bruised eyes. Pale skin, dark hair in disarray. He strode with a sinister confidence, a grace Stiles never had. His back straight, chin cocked proudly. Occasionally, the back of their hands would brush, and it burned her like fire. Stiles had always been handsome, but even now with his new alarmingly frightening looks, his confidence made the people they passed on the street stare in awe. They stared at the pair of them, and Lydia tried to guess what they were thinking. She was used to people staring at her, but she wondered if they could pick up that she was out of place.

He had warned her before they left the hotel room not to speak to anyone. His cool hand wrapped around her wrist with a tight squeeze as he leaned in close and whispered his demands in her ear. She nodded her understanding before wrenching her hand from his bruising grip.

He didn't try to hold onto her as they walked through winding streets, filled with lights and music and the occasional stray dog. She knew he would catch her if she tried to make a break for it, and he knew it as well. It was chilling, to know that. But in this foreign environment, it was almost a comfort to be beside him. She could almost pretend that it was Stiles walking next to her, instead of an evil entity. Almost.

After a ten-minute walk, the winding roads gave way to what Lydia thought to be the center of the town. There were large buildings, more tourist-looking spots that served drinks in tall glasses, beaded with condensation and topped with fruit. People were dancing to a live band playing Latin music in what looked like an outdoor club, and street vendors called out ticket orders while cooking delicious smelling meats. Her stomach growled at the sights and smells.

He looked over to her with a quirk of his brow before taking her hand and leading her to the best looking food stall.

"What do you want?" he asked, leaning in to be heard over the energetic, thumping music. She didn't know the name of it, but she pointed out a dish of heaping rice, beans and chicken, with grilled vegetables on the side. He leaned into the vendor, and to her surprise, ordered in Spanish before whipping out local currency to pay.

"Dos." He said, holding up two fingers. The vendor nodded with a pleasant smile and leaned forward to say, "Tu esposa es muy hermosa," eyes flicking over to hers good-naturedly.

"Yes," he agreed, turning to her with a sly smile. "my wife is very beautiful, isn't she?"

Lydia watched in slow motion as he rose a hand to push a flaming lock of hair away from her face, his fingertips scorching her skin as they trailed down her cheek, thumb pulling her plush lower lip from her teeth before rubbing it back and forth across her flushed mouth.

She wanted to bat his hand away, but he was looking at her so oddly she found herself distracted.

* * *

"How long are we staying here?" Lydia asked, pushing her empty food bowl across a rickety table surface. The food had been delicious, and she wolfed it down, uncaring about manners. She hadn't realized how voracious her appetite had been until she took the first bite. He had taken a few bites from his bowl as well, but he didn't seem to enjoy it. She had ended up finishing both hers as well as most of his.

"We shall see." He murmured, fingers drumming across the table. Statistically, she knew the likelihood of being rescued would be greater the longer they stayed in one place. But there was a fine line to ride between wanting and not wanting to be discovered. She still had no idea of how to save Stiles. What if the pack found them before she could devise a plan? Would they pause to listen to her reasoning, or would their thirst for the nogitsunes' blood win out? How long would it take her to save Stiles, how long would she be on the run with him? A month….a year?

He suddenly interrupted her anxious thoughts, leaning across the table with a biting smile.

"Lydia-darling, we can stay here a few more nights if that's what you desire. I only ask one thing."

This was not going to be good.

"What?" she froze, studying him suspiciously.

He tilted his head to examine her before turning his gaze to the group of people swaying and grinding to the spanish music that played across the street. It took her a moment to register what he was requesting of her.

She stared at him with big eyes, astonished."Y-you want to dance with me?"

"A pretty simple request, in my humble opinion."

No request the nogitsune made would be a simple request. It was never black and white, never innocent and uncomplicated. Why would he want to dance with her? Was he teasing her? Tempting her?

So many times he had told her that he had seen her mind, her deepest, darkest desires. She knew it had been true, and it scared her half to death. Did he see her pain, her endless suffering? And even worse, much worse than her sleepless nights and haunted waking moments where she couldn't escape the endless chatter of the damned and dead, had he seen what she truly yearned for?

She said it before she realized her mouth had even opened, "Maybe...tomorrow."

He raised his eyebrows at the word, eyes boring into her own like endless, dark pits.

"Tomorrow." he whispered, a hushed and loaded promise.

* * *

He would watch her all night, he never slept. After making him swear to keep off the bed, he once more returned to the darkest corner of the room, fingers drumming faintly on the plush arms of an eaten away armchair. She didn't think she would be able to sleep with him staring at her, so she was surprised when one moment she was watching him watch her, and the next she was in the living room of the Stilinski household.

There was the plaid armchair, soft in the sunlight, where the Sheriff often sat after a long shift at work. Only it was occupied, not by the Sheriff, but by Stiles himself.

She flung herself to him, desperate to wrap her arms around his warm, welcoming body. But she couldn't.

It was if an invisible barrier existed between them, and the force of her launch had made her ricochet backwards. She landed hard on her side, wind knocked out of her chest as she gasped, her eyes watering at the sudden impact.

Stiles jumped up alarmed, and raced to meet her, but he too was unable to cross the invisible line.

"Lydia!" he roared frantically, pounding on thin air. She scrambled to her feet to meet him, both pairs of eyes wide and fearful.

"Are you alright? Are you okay?" she fumbled over the words as her body violently trembled. He was here, the  _real_  part of him, and he wasn't in a watery grave. He was respondent.

"Yes, yes, you?"

She nodded vigorously, unable to tear her eyes away.

"Lydia, why?! How could you do this? How could you follow him?! He's going to hurt you! He's going to manipulate you!" he panicked, hands fluttering to his mouth, pulling his hair, pushing the unmovable air.

"You know why!" she wailed, finding her own body mimicking his movements. "Stiles, listen, how can I save you?! How do I separate him from you?!"

He shook his head, eyelids fluttering.

"I-I can't...I don't know! I don't know! He's in my head, he knows everything! I can't s-speak without him hearing it." he stuttered, eyes bouncing wildly.

Lydia felt a shattering in her chest as she watched him, so panicked for her safety, for his release. She understood what he was trying to communicate. They would never be able to discuss a rescue plan without him knowing about it. Not when the nogitsune would allow him to surface, not even in her dreams.

"Shhh," she hushed, trying to calm him though she herself was in full-blown panic mode. "Shh, Stiles, don't worry. Hey, look at me. Breathe. I'll figure it out. I won't let him hurt me."

She placed her palm to him, and she watched as he raised a shaking hand to place his own to hers.

" _For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss._ " she recited half-mindedly, watching as his breathing slowed.

"I'm going to fight for you, Lydia." he whispered, and she let out a watery laugh.

"I'm going to fight for you, too."

They stayed that way, for how long she didn't know. It felt like days and yet seconds.

"I'm scared." she admitted. His eyes searched hers.

" _Wszystkie dzieci, nawet źle,_

_pogrążone są we śnie,_

_a ty jedna tylko nie_

_a-a-a, a-a-a…"_

He surprised her by singing softly, a low-throaty, pleasant hum. She stared at him and he stared back as a smile spread across her face.

"Again." she whispered, comforted.

He repeated the strange, marbled-mouthed lullaby, their palms pressed like a prayer. Over and over and over until her eyes opened to the rising sun.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to Stivvy, whose thoughtful reviews make me smile like crazy!
> 
> Stivvy asked for a translation for the Polish lullaby. Funny thing about that, when I was writing the chapter, I knew I wanted a lullaby in Polish, so I literally googled "Polish lullabies," and a lullaby called A-a-a, kotki dwa (Ah-ah-ah, Two Little Kittens), popped up pretty frequently. You can google it for the full translation, (it's the first link). But it's basically about two kittens, and how it's time to fall asleep. What Stiles said can be roughly translated to this:
> 
> "All children, even the bad ones,  
> Are already asleep,  
> Only you are not.
> 
> Ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah"
> 
>  
> 
> There will be more Polish in this story, I however, do not speak Polish and am using Google Translate for my basic Polish skills. If you'd like to know what Stiles is saying, just copy and paste it into there! A HUGE apology if a reader actually speaks Polish and I'm slaughtering the language. Please forgive my ignorance. xx
> 
> ~Another fun fact, I'm currently reading The Goldfinch (beautiful, highly recommend), and one of the characters actually sings this lullaby! I was so gobsmacked that I'd recently also wrote that same lullaby down, it was such a cool moment! :)

Lydia wakes up wanting to kiss Stiles, so it was alarming to see Stiles sitting in the armchair of the hotel room, staring at her. No, she shakes the sleep from her brain, no that's not him. Not really.

"A little confused this morning, huh banshee girl?" he murmurs with a wicked smile.

"Fuck off." she spits out, surprised at the venom behind her words. She ends up not caring. Her palms are still tingling from her dream where they were pressed against Stiles' own. Lydia gives her head another little shake. Was it only a dream? She knew it wasn't. Somehow, someway, she had tapped into a mutual space between them. She wondered if the nogitsune knew about it.

"Had a sweet dream, huh?"

Well that answered that question.

"More like a freaking nightmare."

"You look gorgeous this morning. Care for a good morning kiss?" he murmurs, voice low and thick, before sauntering to sit by her on the bed.

He leans forward and Lydia pulls back, studying him. He just remains tilted forward, lips a closed, tight smile. It would be so easy for her to close her eyes and give in. To imagine it was Stiles' touch. But no amount of physical distraction could keep her from the truth. His body language was so unlike Stiles it was alarming, she would never be able to close her eyes and get what she craved so intimately. She would have to open her eyes at some point to see a stranger staring back, with flushed lips and hungry eyes. It wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him.

"Remember your promise you made to me?" she breathed, and watched as his eyes darted all over her face, trying to predict where this would go.

"Yes."

"I want Stiles. I want him now, and I get one hour."

He froze.

"So soon? Remember, I promised you one hour a week. That's all."

"Give him to me." Lydia hissed, eyes steady and unmovable.

She couldn't tell what he was thinking as he looked at her, but she knew he would not deny her. The nogitsune rose, turning to sit back into the armchair by the bed. Lydia couldn't tear her eyes away. Her body darted forward, hovering on her hands and knees as she eagerly licked her lips. He gave her a strange look before his eyelids fluttered, eyes rolling back before his head fell forward to his chest, as if in deep sleep.

Lydia couldn't breathe. Her eyes widened, impossibly big as she broke into a cold sweat. Silence stretched on before-

Stiles sucked in a big breath, gasping as his eyes snapped open and his head immediately began to search the room before his gaze finally landed on her own. He drank her in, watched as her ample chest heaved in a thin, pale pink nightgown that left little to the imagination. Her long hair tousled and lips swollen from sleep. There were tears in her eyes.

"Lydia." he breathed, and she launched herself at him, like a predator attacking prey. She collided hard with his chest, knocking the wind out of him as her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. She was openly sobbing now, and he found his throat began to constrict as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.

"Stiles, Stiles!" Lydia whispered like a prayer, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She felt him wrap his arm gently around her back as she curled into his lap, the other stroking the back of her head.

"Lydia, are you okay?" he pulled away, pushing the loose curls away from her face to get a better look.

"No," she murmured as her body shook. "No, Stiles, I'm not okay. I can't figure out a way...how am I supposed to save y-?"

He silenced her, gently pushing his palm to her lips.

"No, Lydia, remember what I said? He's listening." Stiles hushed her, drinking in her face. Long eyelashes stuck together in spikes from her tears, nose turning pink and mouth bright red.

"You really are beautiful when you cry, you know."

Lydia coughs out a laugh, shaking her head.

"So the dream, it was...real?"

Stiles shrugged, blinking tears out of the way. "I guess? I assumed you did it on purpose. You know. Banshee stuff."

Lydia shook her head. "No, I'm not sure how I did that. But I'm glad it happened. I've been dreaming about you a lot. I'll keep trying."

She suddenly realizes how little clothing she's wearing, and how she's precariously perched on Stiles' lap, just as he seems to realize the same. Lydia's eyelids flutter, unable to fight her desire anymore as she leans in and kisses him.

His mouth is soft, warm and wet, and the kiss is deep but gentle. In it, she tries to pour everything she's been feeling these past few days, and everything she's been feeling these past few years of knowing him. All things said and unsaid, all dreams and hopes and wants. When she finally pulls away, she notes his hooded gaze and melted brown eyes. Lydia's hands move slowly to his chest, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Lydia…" he breathes into her face, and she looks up to meet his stare. "I want this to myself. I-I don't want him to have this moment. I don't want him to use it to hurt you." Stiles murmurs, and she understands what he's trying to say.

"What if I don't care? I miss you so much."

Stiles tilts his head to look at her.

"Does this mean you like me?"

Lydia realized with a start that the last time they actually kissed was on the floor of the boy's locker room. Sure they had grown closer over the year, each knowing this moment was again inevitable. But they had yet to define it. They had just let it unfold naturally. Casually holding hands, the constant touch of his palm to her shoulder blade. Always going straight up to his bedroom after a long day at school. And the only time she confessed her true feelings was when the nogitsune appeared in her bedroom.

"I more than 'like' you."

She watched his eyes flutter as he exhaled, digesting her words.

"I love you, Stiles Stilinski. We're going to get through this. Together. I won't fail you, I promise."

He reaches out to trail his fingertips along her jaw before kissing her once more.

* * *

She runs through the streets, trailing him behind her. He was alarmed, crying out that she was barefoot, still in her nightgown, but she didn't care. She wanted this moment to be just theirs. Wanted to trick the nogitsune right back, make him be the fool for once. They are huffing and puffing by the time they reach it, but by then darkness has arrived and it's already crowded.

"I promised that I would dance with it." she calls to him over her shoulder before pulling his body close to hers. "This should piss it off a bit."

Stiles isn't sure whether to laugh or be frightened for her, but in the end he doesn't care, because Lydia Martin is in a practically see-through nightie, with wild hair and even wilder eyes, and she's pushing her chest into his. People are staring at her, and he can't blame them. She's an absolute goddess. Stiles feels her kiss his neck as she wraps her arms over his shoulders, and he snakes his own over her waist. The Latin music pounds overhead as people push into their bodies. Sweat begins to bead on his skin. Stiles makes sure to survey his surroundings, take notes, but it's nothing he hasn't seen before. He's already watched this scene from the eyes of the nogitsune. Instead, he chooses to focus solely on her, her wants and needs.

He isn't sure how long they were dancing for, but when he feels a stirring behind his collarbone, it still isn't enough.

"He's coming." Stiles whispers into her ear, knowing the hour is up.

She pulls her head from his chest, eyes wide and fearful. She wants to beg him not to go, wants to pitch a fit, wants to start crying, but she refuses to do that to him. It would be hard enough for him as it is. Instead she forms a tight smile, eyes watering.

"I love you. I'll figure this out. I'll see you soon."

"Lydia," he says, a frown forming as he looks down at her. She can see his eyes dart back and forth, as it does when he's working through something, figuring it out. He brings an hand up to his mouth. "It's...strange. Something is wrong with it, but it doesn't know what it is. It feels something, but I can't put my finger on it."

He's beginning to look frantic, so she just takes his quivering hand.

"It's okay! You'll figure it out. Fight and figure it out. I'll do the same, okay?"

He looks at her once more, a blindingly bright, burning gaze, before the light in his eyes goes out completely.

His head slopes to the side, and when his gaze gets sharp again, she knows it's back.

"Oh, Princess. You're in trouble."

The nogitsune glares down at her with a sickening look before grabbing her arm like a petulant child, marching her back to the hotel.

* * *

She dreams of Allison. Allison smiling from beside her in the passenger seat of her car. Allison letting out a slow, steady breath as she draws the string of her bow back to her ear. Allison, holding up dresses to her body as Lydia herself voices her displeasure and occasional approval. Allison's warm body, rising and falling with the breath of a deep slumber beside her own. Her best friend. Her soulmate. Gone from this world, violently ripped, like a crucial page in the most important book of the universe. Without her, nothing but confusion. A world that doesn't make sense.

* * *

Lydia woke with tears in her eyes. She lay on the lumpy mattress, knowing the nogitsune was watching from somewhere, but she didn't care. Today, she didn't want to move. She didn't want to pretend to be strong. Didn't want to try to outwit, to out manipulate. She just wanted to grieve.

"You should just kill me, you know." Lydia whispered allowed, after crying into the silent room for an hour.

"Why?" she heard him rasp from the doorway, but didn't move her head.

"I'm going to destroy you. Isn't that why you brought me here? You're either going to kill me, or wait for me to kill you. Or maybe you'll wait for Scott to do one or the other."

"Is that what you think?"

She can practically hear his smirk, practically feel his eyes flash.

"Why did you do it?" she croaks, and finally props herself on her elbows to look at him for the first time since waking. "Why her?"

He's standing with his arms crossed, staring her down. She realizes he's wearing different clothes than the day before, but can't find it in herself to care why.

He studies her for a moment before saying, "who else?"

"ME!"

She practically screams it, and flings the bedsheets off her body, stomping toward him in blind fury.

"You should have killed ME! It should have been ME!" Lydia is in his face, hair wild and eyes wet as she shoves him hard in the chest, but he doesn't budge.

"You did this! You killed Allison! You broke Stiles! You're going to suffer." she hisses and screeches, limbs smacking and pulling and shoving. She doesn't recognize her own voice, just feels so deeply. Pain, pain and an emptiness that threatens to swallow her whole. He repulses her. Everything about him is torturous. The knowledge he's the reason Allison is nothing but a shell, laying alone in a cold room. How he uses Stiles' body to confuse her, manipulate her emotions. Lydia reaches to claw at his face and finally his arms dart out to snatch her wrists in a bruising grip.

She won't whimper, won't let him have the satisfaction. Instead she hyperventilates, chest heaving heavily as she glares daggers at him. He glares back.

After a moment of nothing but the sound of her breathing, he gives her an answer.

"You're too valuable."

It doesn't make sense, as usual. But by now Lydia is used to being disappointed by his answers.

"I'm saving a scream, just for you." she spits, and is satisfied to see his usual coolness replaced with fear before he releases her from his crushing grip, turning to exit the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

_He is hovering above her, covered in grey dust. Her eyes feel heavy and the air rattles in her chest as she sucks in a breath at the sight of him. It's him. It's the real him. Not the demon wearing his skin, but her Stiles. The one she is so desperate to save, to hold. Lydia is elated for a moment before the pain kicks in. Everything hurts, from her head to her toes, an ache that fills her completely. She watches as he blinks away the sleep, and shakes the ash from his hair before clearing his throat. Lydia knows he's trying to summon the energy to speak, and she pushes her elbows into the ground, desperate to sit up and wrap her arms around him. But agonizing pain like a flame licks up her weary arms, and she cries out before crumpling. As her back hits the ground once more, fine powder flies up from her falling weight. She too is covered in ash._

_She manages to croak out his name before he places a warm hand on her mouth._

_He looks around with fear in his eyes, and it scares her. He's afraid._

_"Shhh, shh. Lydia, nie."_

_At first she thinks she mishears him. "W-what?"_

_He turns to her and shakes his head, pulling his hand from her lips and rubs the same fingers across his own, back and forth. He's troubled, and frustrated._

_"Stiles, please." she whimpers, and holds her arms out to him. She wants to comfort him, and a selfish part of her wants to be comforted in return._

_"Lydia, uh...tylko po polsku." his hands are moving around, rubbing his mouth, his temples, waving in the space between them. "Tylko po polsku. Tylko polsku, Lydia."_

_He looks feverish, desperately trying to communicate in a garbled sounding language. This time when Lydia tries to sit up, she manages to raise herself on her forearms. She sucks in another breath and breaths in the dust, letting out a rough cough._

_"Stiles?"_

_"Tylko polsku. Tylko polsku. Uh…" he coughs violently before wheezing, "język polski."_

_She blinks at him, at a loss. Her head is pounding and still fuzzy. She tries to work through the cloud in her mind, and the ash in her vision._

_"Yen-zik-pol-ski." she imitates, the words tasting strange on her tongue._

_Stiles nods enthusiastically, and lets out a 'whoop!' of short lived delight._

_"Tak, tak, Lydia. Tylko polsku!" he urges, taking her small shoulders in his hands and giving them a gentle shake. His eyes are wide and bore into her own, and she knows he's trying to pour the answers into her without the need for language. They had always been tethered, they had always had an unspoken bond. And the majority of the time, they could communicate entire sentences, even monologues, with a single look. But this time, Lydia was at a loss. She wants so desperately to understand, to be able to share his mindset. And as she watches his whiskey-colored eyes flick back and forth between her own, his dark eyebrows pulled up to his hairline, she knows that for the first time in a very long time, they are not on the same page. She has failed him._


	4. Chapter 4

 

It's become familiar, Lydia waking up and not knowing where in the world she was.

"You didn't tell me we were leaving." she says, head pounding as she takes in her surroundings, what looks to be a small cottage. There are no walls, save the four that makeup the wooden home. The kitchen is directly in front of her and to the right. While a wooden stove and couch make up the left corner. She spins to the windows, outside, nothing but green pastures. European countryside, maybe.

"After that stunt you pulled, I didn't feel too generous." he murmurs lowly, and she finally allows herself to take him in. He stands next to a bright red kettle, arms crossed.

She know he means dancing with Stiles instead of him, and her heart drops, though she isn't sure why.

"You know," she says, swinging her legs out of the bed and starts searching the kitchen cupboards for any food she can find, suddenly ravenous. "I'm quite familiar with jealousy. I'd get it from girls the most though. You should have seen the stuff they wrote about me on the stalls in the bathroom."

"L.M. sucks cock. If it wears a lacrosse jersey, L.M. will fuck it." he smirks, and Lydia tries not to think about how he knew that, or the way he says 'sucks cock,' and 'fuck.'

Desperate to hide her flushed face, she busies herself around the kitchen, finding a package of biscuits and moving to put water in the kettle.

"I already started it for you." he says, not looking at her but the window outside.

Lydia stares at him. Stiles' handsome features remain, despite the nogitsune's sickly effects, and again, she finds herself frustrated.

"You're jealous, aren't you?" she whispers, and moves so she's standing in front of him. Her tiny frame makes no difference as he continues to look over her head, so she rests her hands on the counter on either side of him. This gets his attention.

His gaze shifts down as he looks at her. She watches as his eyes bore into her own, before smirking and shifting down to her cleavage.

"Nice, Martin."

She moves quickly, pushing her weight off the counter to turn away, furious. But he latches onto her shoulders and pulls her chest to his so violently her head snaps back.

"What do you want me to say, Lydia. That I'm angry you danced with Stiles? I got to experience it too." he whispers with hot breath, arching down, face inches from her own.

"I got to see that gorgeous body move against my own. I got to smell your hair from behind you. I got to see everyone stare at you just as openly as I did. I felt your chest and your ass and your hips-"

"Let go of me!" Lydia shouts, trying in vain to wriggle from his tight grip. She's heard enough. She was foolish for thinking she had the upper hand in any way. When it came to pure manipulation, the nogitsune was always in the position of power.

"What, baby, you don't like it rough? That's a lie. I know you do. I know what you did to Jackson's back. I know how you practically mauled Aiden in the Coach's office-"

"You shut your fucking mouth about Aiden." she hisses, no longer caring about maintaining her cool facade. He just brushes it off, dark eyes like tunnels, burning into her own.

"I know how you think about Stiles. How desperate you are to be with him. What you would do to him. What he would do to you." he continues mercilessly, gaze sliding down her body with appreciation. "What  _ **I**_  would do to you. Bet  _ **I**_ could make you scream like the banshee you are."

Lydia frees herself with a final tug, and they stand apart in the kitchen, glaring and chests heaving.

"What the fuck do you want from me, Lydia?" he snarls, and Lydia knows he means more than the obvious; answers, Stiles safe, to be left alone.

"I want books." she huffs, and watches as his face actually, for the first time ever, seems taken back. Confused.

The kettle begins to shriek.

* * *

He leads her through winding cobblestone paths and cramped alleyways. Wooden signs hang from doorposts in a language she can't read. It's not French or German, and she suspects some Slavic influence. Lydia almost wants to laugh at herself. She can read Archaic Latin but struggles with a modern language currently used in parts of the world. The streets are a contrast to their previous location. They are empty, smelling of water and wine, and the subtle smoke of a flavored cigar. She counts the number of people they pass on one hand, and no one looks twice at them.

Finally, the stand in front of what appears to be a small store. The windows are dirty and there is little light filtering from inside.

"Do you even have money to pay for this?" she asks, arching an inquisitive brow.

"Yes."

"Is this place even open right now?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

His mouth forms a tight line as he points a pale, bony finger to a small sign in indecipherable scribble.

"Apparently you can read hieroglyphics. How do you know they even have books?"

"It's a fucking bookstore. Just, go in, Martin."

When she pulls open the door, she hears the soft, familiar chime of a bell, and the scent of stale air and old paper fills her nose. Books, rows and rows of books line shelves moving deeper into the store than it appeared on the outside. An owlish looking man with round spectacles passively observes them from a desk in the front before returning to his newspaper.

Lydia moves to follow the shelves, and she feels him hover closely behind.

"I know you love being up my ass at all times, but can you just give me a moment of privacy? Just once? Picking out books is a sacred ritual for me."

He glowers at her, but actually takes a step back.

"Stay." she places her hand out, mockingly treating him like an obstreperous dog learning a new trick. She knows it infuriates him, and she grins, flipping her hair over her shoulder, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest.

His glares and stony silence were getting easier to dismiss, but she would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't still terrified of him. He was a demon, he had destroyed her pack from the inside out, and no amount of childish teasing or sassy language could quell that fact. He had the ability to break her, but he chose not to, and she found that was the worst part. Like sitting on top of a live landmine.

Most of the titles of the books are in strange languages, and she wanders among the dusty shelves until she comes across and English section. The majority of the books are travel guides to European countries, cookbooks, and strangely enough, a few random reads like Tom Sawyer and an instruction manual for a VCR. She pretends like she's considering them all.

_If he knew what she was really up to_... _ **no**_. She shakes her head, vigorously trying to clear her thoughts. She can't even allow herself to think about it. She thinks of him instead. Thinks of the last time she was laying in his bed, listening to his ramblings as the Sheriff moved around in the kitchen below.

_The smell of waffles in the morning_ , **Словарь русского языка** , Russian.

_Who was letting Prada out to use the bathroom while she was gone?_ **Slovník současné češtiny** , Czech.

_Will her mother file a missing person's report?_ **The Oxford-Duden German Dictionary: German-English, English-German**. Not it.

_Was Scott at their previous hotel room, searching for her scent?_   **Angielsko-Polski**.

She blinks, and her heart pounds so hard it's in her throat but only for a second.

_Polski_.  _Yen-zik-pol-ski._

Immediately, she starts humming a catchy jingle to an incessant commercial that was always on television, and her eyes dart from the book title, as if caught in an illegal act.

She picks out a weathered looking book on Metaphysics, and the medical reference book, Gray's Anatomy. She wills herself to keep her heart level and continues to hum the commercial, as she slowly peels the Polish/English dictionary off the shelf, reaching underneath her flowing cotton dress and shoving the book in the space between her stomach and the elastic of her underwear. Still humming, Lydia pretends like she's mildly interested in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, even though she read it in third grade, before adding it to the pile in her hands.

She makes her way back to the front of the bookstore, and the elderly man rings up her books as the nogitsune pushes a handful of heavy coins over the counter.

She tries to act normal and keep her mind clear, but she's beginning to sweat.

She's never stolen anything in her life. Especially something as valuable and as precious as a book. But Stiles would have done it.

Stiles had no aversion to bending the rules if it was for the greater good.

And his life was definitely the greater good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #HESTILLLIKESHER
> 
> I will never get over these past two Teen Wolf episodes. Not for as long as this Stydia Trash heart of mine beats. xx


	5. Chapter 5

All he can think about is her bedroom. It’s been a constant weight on his psyche. Scott can still smell her when he recalls that night, but it the scent was not her strawberry shampoo or honeysuckle perfume. It was fear. Panic. Desperation. Her emotions permeated the air like thick fog. He nearly choked on it.

He’s been tracing her for weeks, and for the first time in a very long time, he’s made progress. A man who runs a local food stand remembers a beautiful red-headed woman and her tall, pale husband. The word “husband” throws Scott off, but he understands. They must look like a young couple on their honeymoon.

They’ve always looked like a pair. Always unconsciously leaning into each other, holding hands, communicating with just looks. He supposes not even Stiles being void can quell their instincts.

When he breaks into the dingy hotel, he smells her again. Fear. Panic. Desperation. So strong it continues to hover even underneath the smell of others who’ve inhabited the room, long after they fled. But there is another scent that he picks up, and it’s that of Stiles, but not Stiles. An empty Stiles...void Stiles. And that smell is confusion, uncertainty...vulnerability.

He blinks the stinging away in his eyes, willing himself to be strong, though he feels like he may shatter at any moment.

_Lydia._

He can’t understand, can’t possibly comprehend why she would do this right after Allison’s death. Right after the oni drove a sword through the belly of her best friend, under nogitsune orders. He knows that she might have been kidnapped against her will, but in the dark corners of his mind, in the churning pit of his stomach, he fears something even worse. She left on her own free will.

Again, he reminds himself that if she did choose to leave with Stiles, she must have done it for a good reason. For Stiles’ protection. He wonders when he stopped trusting her judgement, which has never been faulty. He begs with himself to have a little faith in her. But at night, when Scott and the pack regroup to go over tomorrow’s plans, he notices their absence. He notices how his pack feels like a shell, solid on the outside and empty in the middle. Scott is surrounded by pack members who have traveled half a continent to bring Stiles and Lydia home, and they are also his friends, and they’re doing it because they care about them, but also because he’s asked them to, and he feels abandoned. He is within and without.

It should have be him making the difficult choice to flee into the uncertain night with a demon wearing the skin of someone he cared about. It should be him suffering for his best friend. Not Lydia. Lydia didn’t deserve this. Stiles didn’t deserve this. Allison didn’t deserve this.

He was a failure.

* * *

The steam from the shower makes the letters on the page blurry, but she pushes on, struggling to register the tiny inked words on yellowed pages. She’s already learned the basics. Hello and goodbye and I love you. _Halo, do widzenia, Kocham Cię_.

She struggles over their pronunciation at first, relying heavily on the IPA guidance, but it gets easier the more she deciphers the Polish alphabet. Lydia doesn’t know if Stiles is fluent in Polish, but she suspects not. More than likely, he too is struggling to communicate in a foreign language, trying his best to recall scrambled words that his mother used to teach him. She remembers once when they were lying on his bed, eyes bleary from staring at a computer screen for information, he told her how his family used to speak to each other in broken Polish. The language hadn’t been used again when his mother passed.  

She wonders what it would be like to share a family language, one only they can understand. And then she wonders how it felt to suddenly not be able to speak it at all, because it hurts so much. Lydia can’t think about it for more than a minute. It hurts her too.

She only allows herself to study for thirty minutes a day. It’s a long time for a shower, but she usually takes this long anyway. In the last five minutes, she jumps in and scrubs her body as fast as she can, trying to avoid suspicion. She knows the nogitsune is not a mind reader, though he’s perceptive as hell. But he can read Stiles’ mind, because there is no separation now.

Lydia can tell he knows she’s up to something. He sees Stiles’ dreams, sees how they’re speaking in a different language. Conspiring. But he never brings it up, just looks at her with burning holes for eyes. This is what he claimed he wanted. This was all part of his plan, to get her to figure out how to resurrect Stiles. But the more Lydia begins to dream of him, the quieter the nogitsune gets. He barely speaks now, just stares and stares and stares.

* * *

They’re in the Stilinski living room again, and it’s the golden hour, just like before. The yellow light makes Stiles’ hair turn chestnut, makes his brown eyes look like someone turned a light on behind them.

“He’s acting weird.” she says to Stiles, purposely looking up the Polish words the day before so she could tell him. She recalls the words ‘quiet’ and ‘watching,’ murmuring them clumsily.

She watches as Stiles licks his lips, adam’s apple bobbing anxiously. He asks her a question in Polish, and for a brief moment, she admires how easily his mouth moves around the words, lips pink and puckering.

She thinks he’s asking if the nogitsune is nervous, and she shrugs noncommittally.

“Nozdrze? Maybe…”

He actually throws his head back and laughs, and she drinks him in, a slow smile spreading across her lips. It’s been so long since she’s seen him laugh like that. It’s almost like she can take this moment and pretend they’re not in a dream, that he’s actually there with her, tangible. That they’re in his father’s living room. That she won’t wake up to emptiness and loneliness and fear, and a demon who watches her sleep.

“What! What did I say?”

Stiles wipes his eyes, one corner of his mouth moving higher than the other.

“Nostril!”

She can’t help but laugh with him, but it flies by so quickly and it’s much too soon, and she’s already waking.

* * *

There is a flower on the pillow next to her head.

It’s a daisy, white petals and yellow center. She blinks, trying to wrap her mind around it. There is a flower on her pillow, and he put it there.

Why.

Lydia sits up quickly, heart racing. The cottage is seemingly empty, but she is on edge. She looks for more clues, and there. She finds another. A mug of tea that she always drinks in the mornings, steam rising and waiting for her consumption. Freshly made.

She’s not an idiot. She’d like to think she’s mastered the opposite sex, and she knows flirting when she sees it. She knows respect when she sees it. But even though she sees this as clear as day, she doesn’t understand it.

Devotion.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a delay! I know I sound like a broken record but no wifi, packing up and moving in two days, tryna get shit together = no bueno for my writing schedule, so I hope this chapter is at least slightly satisfactory (even if it is super short). I'm in a bit of a jumbled mindset. Thanks for all your kind words and patience! I really appreciate you guys!! :)


	6. Chapter 6

 

He’s starving.

Everyday his insides twist and clench, and he can feel Stiles staring at him. Studying him from the inside out. Watching and waiting with bated breath.

**_You’re dying._ **

“Wouldn’t that be nice, human?”

They watch her chest rise and fall in the early morning light. For hours, they watch as her hair, pale from moonlight, sets fire with the sun. Lydia Martin is either sleeping or waiting to fall back into her dreams. She is a walking corpse during the day. Unspeaking, with limp hair and biting eyes. She doesn’t exist outside of dreaming and waking.

_**Where’s your chaos? Your pain and strife? Where did your bloodlust go?** _

“You think I don’t still desire those things? You think she’ll escape this without some bloodshed?” he growls, watching as Lydia lets out a hum, vision racing under purpled eyelids.

 _ **Please.**_ Stiles snorts, and he can practically feel the squint of his eyes, the huff of disbelief. _**Don’t even pretend for a second that you’re going to kill her.**_

“What makes you so certain?”

Stiles doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to.

“Anway,” Void continues, “There are more ways than one to hurt somebody. Surely you know that by now.”

He lets a vision flash across his mind’s eye. Aiden, leaning over Lydia by her locker. Jackson, telling Scott and Stiles in the locker room about Lydia being a tigress in bed, offering to show them his back. Scott, with dark eyes and Lydia with smeared lipstick on a lacrosse field.

_**Amature. Juvenile.** _

“You’re honestly telling me you’re no longer affected by her past?”

_**I’ve always known the kind of person she is. I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve accepted every part of her. Even the ugly bits. Besides, I’m a little more preoccupied with her future.** _

“The only future you should be concerned about it yours, human.”

_**I could say the same thing about you.** _

The sun is warming the horizon, and they watch as the walls turn orange. She’ll be waking soon. She’ll rise with a suspicious glare, accept the cup of tea he’ll put out for her, and fold into herself for the rest of the day.

_**She’s shrinking.** _

“She’s a banshee. Her mind is not meant for this world.”

_**Fuck you.** _

He spits out a laugh, narrowing his eyes.

“That got you riled up. Don’t like the idea of her slowly slipping into madness, huh? That’s the way of the dark supernatural. It’s inevitable.”

_**It’s circumstantial.** _

“It’s her _nature_.”

Void feels his heart pound, his hands tremble. Stiles’ cool facade has broken, even if only for a moment.

“Haven’t felt you that panicked for a long time, Stiles. None of my taunts have been working lately.”

_**Well, it has been easier to manage, now that Lydia and I are forming a plan that’s going to kill you.** _

“Ah yes,” Void sighs, tongue darting out to lick his cracked lips. “The plan to kill me. So you succeed. I no longer exist. Then what?”

Stiles stills inside him.

“Allison is still dead. Six feet under cold earth, worms working their way to her body. Lydia is still empty inside. She has you, but the hole in her heart is too big to be filled by anyone. Not even herself. Not even by you. And she slips further into the void. She falls down the rabbit hole. She hears the voices, all pressed up against her.”

_**Shut up.** _

“She sees dark hair flash around a corner and it steals her breath. She plucks the string of a bow, and her ears bleed. And it’s too much.”

_**You shut the fuck up.** _

“It will always be too much, Stiles. There is a reason banshees are both feared and revered by the supernatural. They are the closest to the realm. They are the darkest of us all.”

They look at her, lips flushed and parted, lashes long and kissing her cheeks.

“Even the ones that look like angels.”

_**...I won’t let that happen.** _

“Oh Stiles, it’s already happening. Because life goes on after death, true. But to pretend it will go back to how it was is delusional. I admire your fire. I’m trying to help you here.”

_**Yeah fucking right. You’re using my body as a vessel to hurt people. To confuse and manipulate Lydia. And you tell me you’re trying to help me? Forgive me if I don’t believe an ounce of the shit currently spewing out of your fucking mouth.** _

“ _So_ fired up. Okay Stiles. We haven’t even touched on what’s to become of you if you survive. You really think the darkness in your heart won’t win out? You really think you both won’t be severely traumatized? So much devastation. So much hurt, and you’ll never be able to really forgive yourself. You’ll never be able to look behind you and not see the aftermath.”

**_You’re in love with Lydia._ **

It comes out like a spit to the face, and Void freezes, eyes wide as he takes her in. The heaving of her breasts, the smoothness of her legs. The way he should get started on making that cup of tea before she wakes up.

A thousand years of strife and torture and chaos, all about to be ruined by something as human and mundane as love.

* * *

 

She spends her days thinking of Allison. She curls up with her nose pressed to pages of the dusty metaphysics book he had bought her, pretending to read, instead of crying behind it. She can’t even let her eyes digest the words, an act that had once been so easy. She stares at the empty spaces between the words, blank and vacant.

She is unravelling.

She knows it. Stiles knows it.

….He knows it.

He doesn’t speak to her anymore. Doesn’t torment her mercilessly, he doesn’t have to work for it anymore. Just watches, probably feeding off her agony. And Lydia thinks that it’s quite strange and sad that a millennial aged demon, once was capable of destroying cities and devastating generations, could simply be satisfied by feeding off of one very, very heartbroken girl.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not okay, are you?” he asks her in Polish from his father’s armchair, and she shakes her head.

“Czuję się chory.” _I feel sick_.

He doesn’t ask her to clarify. He doesn’t need to.

“On jest zafascynowany Ciebie.”

“I know. He keeps using your body to confuse me.”

“It’s okay if you give in.”

Her head snaps up, glaring.

“No Stiles. No, it’s not.”

They sit in silence, sun remaining the same golden hour. They’re struggling. All of them.

Lydia, Stiles, the nogitsune.

It was exhausting, being torn in three separate pieces.

 

She promised she’d be strong for him, but it’s been a month since she left Beacon Hills. A month since Allison had been ripped from the world, and with every passing day, she felt the void grow wider. And inescapable chasm.

Her Polish improves with each day. Her mind does not.

When she dreams of Stiles, he no longer looks healthy like he used to. He looks like the nogitsune now. All pale, dark circled, cracked lips. And they still were not closer to finding out how to separate the nogitsune from Stiles without killing Stiles in the process.

Death seemed so easy now.

Lydia considered how easy it would be to die. Humans are so fragile anyway. Bones can be easily shattered, skin can be easily punctured. Some people just pass away for no reason. Some people just shut their eyes and give in and one day they’re here, and the next they’re not.

Lydia wants to die.

Lydia wants to close her eyes and never open them again until Allison is there. She knows Stiles occasionally feels that way too. She supposes most people do from one time to another. But she’s never felt it so strongly, so frequently as she does now.

She continues on anyway. Because even though she is broken, she is still functional.

She is needed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter is late and dark. Wow, I know I'm the queen of angst, but if this chapter was a little too much, I apologize. I've been feeling pretty heavy lately, and I'm sorry if this chapter reflected that in a negative way.
> 
>  
> 
> (In this chapter, Lydia is struggling in a very severe way. If you or someone you know is feeling this way, please know you are not alone.  
> http://www.everydaymatters.com/suicideprevention/)
> 
>  
> 
> On a positive note, the next chapter will be a little lighter, and things will be wrapped up with this story pretty shortly! I'm hoping to post the next chapter this weekend! :)
> 
> Let me know what you think:
> 
> http://red-string-anchors.tumblr.com/
> 
> xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is....just...I don't even know you guys

“Eat.”

It’s the first word he’s spoken to her in over a week.

He takes her in, sitting with her knees to her chest, forehead pressed to the coolness of the window. She doesn’t turn at the sound of his voice, even though it’s been elusive. Lydia just keeps staring out the window, and the glow from the snowy plane lights her face in a way that brings out the bags under her eyes. Her mouth is so chapped her bottom lip has actually split down the middle, the reservoir of blood now a permanent stain in her pillowy lip.

“No.”

The first word _she’s_ said in over a week.

It cracks when it leaves her tongue, splintering harshly into the cold air like thunder.

She is folding deeper into herself. He’s watches her vanish right before his very eyes. Piece by piece, inch by inch.

Perhaps she is being sucked into the dark hole where her heart once resided.

It should please him.

He should be able to feed, drinking her in like a heady elixir of desolation and regret. He should be able to breathe her in. He remembers when he cornered her at Oak Creek, the scent of her panic, her confusion, the way her heart spiked with fear and...something else.

He should be able to.

But he isn’t.

Because there is nothing intoxicating about a dull ache. There is nothing thrilling about emptiness. Nothing exhilarating about Lydia crying out for _Allison Allison Allison_ in her sleep.

He needs pandemonium. He needs ruination. There is beauty in chaos.

There is nothing beautiful in Lydia. There has been nothing beautiful in Lydia for weeks now.

Stiles barely stirs in his mind.

Void imagines him as a heap buried beneath soft snow, allowing himself be covered. Uncaring as to whether or not spring will come to unthaw him.

Lydia is going.

Stiles is going.

...he is joining them.

 

* * *

 

He should kill her.

It would be so easy.

He has relocated her to a new house. Another small cottage, but this time, completely remote. Just Lydia, the mountains of snow, and the aurora borealis above.

Perhaps it was a poor move.

They cannot leave the house. There is no village nearby. There are no strangers to distract her, to engage her focus. There is no one and nothing but each other.

He had to do it, of course. He had to keep moving, keep pushing farther.

The True Alpha was coming.

He was only mere minutes away from discovering their Lithuanian hideaway. Much, much too close for comfort, and with all the running running running he is tired and starving and out of options. He’s backed himself into a corner, all because he was intrigued by creamy skin, rosy nipples, lips like sin and eyes like the moon.

He was insatiable.

Ever since leaned in and inhaled her scent, he had smelled it; Power beyond measure.

Lydia Martin was a treasure, encased in human flesh.

She would be his queen. Rule, dark and powerful. She would burn countries to the ground by his side, worship his cruelty, revel in his mastery of destruction.

He imagined himself inside of her, moving above her, pushing his hips into her perfect ass from behind her, his name on her lips, shrieking in her raspy timbre. He imagined her keening above and below him, and it would all be so easy because he wore the skin of someone she loved.

He would mold her and form her and they would set the world on fire with a ferocious blaze and when it the smoke cleared and the final ashes fell and it was just the two of them left he would take her life.

It would be his swan song.

He would never make it that far, because she was not going to make it that far. And if she didn’t make it, Stiles wouldn’t make it.

There was more power in Lydia Martin than in any human he’d ever come across in his thousands of years. And it wasn’t supernatural power, per se.

 

He had chosen Stiles. Human, flawed, pale, unassuming.

He had chosen Stiles because he had a wild darkness that drew him in like a beacon. There was something dangerous hidden beneath. Something he fought to keep a lid on everyday. It would be so easy to exploit that ferocity. It is akin to the same something that vibrates beneath Lydia’s skin.

But taking over Stiles had not been easy.

The human was stronger than he looked. His mind a constant loop: The True Alpha, The Sheriff, The Dead Mother, The Banshee, The True Alpha, The Sheriff, The Dead Mother, The Banshee.

 

The first time she clocked eyes on him, he felt Stiles’ reaction like a punch to the chest, and it made him snicker. He’d found his weakness.

The second time she looked at him, he felt the breath leave his chest again. Curious.

By the third time, Void was alarmed as the epiphany occurred to him that Stiles felt this sensation every time she looked at him.

He supposed Stiles could only feel so much before it started to affect him second-hand in undesirable ways.

He wanted to curse himself for believing that this human was weak enough to control, because with every taunt, with every movement, with every breath he breathed into Stiles, Stiles breathed back.

And now Stiles was as much a part of him as he was of Stiles.

He was no longer his own entity.

He was a thousand year old demon desperately in love with Lydia Martin.

 

* * *

  
  
She wants to be held so desperately.

It skulks around the cottage restlessly, shooting her looks from the corners of his razor sharp eyes. It’s reminiscent of the suspicious looks Stiles would give to strangers, or whenever a pack member tried to offer a helpful but idiotic suggestion.

The movements are still spidery and controlled, but the mask that it had constructed so carefully was beginning to crack.

It’s emotions began to filter through.

Slowly at first. Uncertainty, suspicion...fear.

Stiles had told her it feels trapped, and she knew she should rejoice in it's consternation. But the only thing they’d succeeded in doing this entire time was having conversations in a language Void doesn’t understand.

She’s always been adept at picking up languages with ease. She’s rivaling his understanding of the language, and it feels nice to be sitting in his living room when they’re both so far from home, speaking in a language only they understand. It feels nice to watch his soft lips move from one throaty word to the next, practically seamless. It feels nice to pretend not to notice how dull his eyes are, or how his hair falls flat to his forehead. It feels nice that he doesn’t comment that her lips are broken and her nails are brittle.

It doesn’t feel good that they can’t touch.

Lydia craves him in a way she’s never known.

Last night she recalled all those years, wasted moments and times where they could have been together without separation and mind-numbing fear. Without a demon third party acting as a perpetual cock-block, and she actually snorted at the thought. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it felt good regardless.

 

Maybe that’s why she dreams of him on top of her, moving powerfully and gently at the same time.

Lydia knows it’s not really him, that it is just her mind giving into it’s subconscious desires, but she clutches to his broad shoulders anyway, keening and giving in to the feeling. The first good feeling she’d had in a very long time.

His hips roll and snap into her, making her chest bounce and her eyes fall into the back of her head. She licks her lips and watches the trail of hair on his stomach lower to where they’re joined. Watches as his lithe fingers push her chest back down on the bed and hold her there, palm between her breasts. She allows herself to be filled up, pink from the tip of her toes to her forehead. She allows herself to watch the protruding vein on his neck pulse in time with her orgasm, trailing her eyes to the muscle working in his jaw, ornamented with freckles, to his slightly upturned nose, the darkness of his brow, and finally to his eyes.

The wind is knocked out of her.

It’s not him.

He freezes, dark tunnels boring into her stare.

“Let me.” it breathes.

It feels like hours pass, their gazes locked on each other before she tils her chin down, eye contact never breaking, and he begins to move again.

But this time, it’s different.

It’s not casual. It’s not fucking.

Her muscles contract, her whole body tenses, and for a terrible minute she’s scared to even breathe because it’s not fucking her.

It’s making love to her.

It lifts her arms over her head, entwining their fingers as it slowly grinds into her pussy.

Lydia wants to throw it off her. Wants to scream that it’s not allowed to hold her hands and steal her breath and fuck her like a lover. It’s not allowed to angle her body so her legs are wrapped around it’s waist. It’s not allowed to make her arch beneath him, and it’s not allowed to move a hand to her back to hold her position as the sensation of the new angle washes over her and he hits a certain spot over and over and over. It’s not allowed to suck deep bruises into her ivory breasts, or whisper dirty words like, ‘ _feel it baby_ ,’ and ‘ _my sweet girl_ ’ and ‘ _I need every inch of you_.’

It’s not allowed to look at her like _that_.

 

When she wakes up, she realizes three things immediately.

One. It was just a dream.

Two. Her fingers are slick with the juices of her arousal.

Three. It is watching her.

He is standing at the foot of her bed, head cocked and eyes evaluative.

She is caught, like a disobedient child. Lydia feels a shame like she’s never felt in her entire life heat her face travel down the length of her body.

Oxygen catches in her throat as her wide eyes quickly assess the situation. Her hand is shoved down the front of her soaked panties, the hem of her nightgown hovering around her navel, her body on full display.

They stare at each other. She waits for it to break the silence but his voice never comes.

Lydia never thought that it was possible to feel the amount and extent of emotion she’s currently feeling. She’s terrified to move even an inch, but she surprises herself because her vision begins to tunnel and produce pops of light, and suddenly everything’s even more heightened.

Her humiliation

Her panic

Her desire.

She’s so close.

So she moves.

She keeps her eyes locked on his, breath returning as she circles slowly around her clit.

She watches as his eyes narrow and his mouth parts to run his tongue across his bottom lip. She looks at how his hair is twisted and his eyes are practically black, and how his arms are crossed tightly over his chest.

She studies how he studies her, eyes unmoving from the hand rotating purposefully between her legs.

And then it happens.

Her toes begin to curl, her body begins to quake, her back arches, chest shoved up and forward, head thrown back.

She can barely hear the sound she makes over the whooshing noise in her ears, and she works herself through the waves of pleasure surging through her pulsing body.

 

He’s still watching her when her body collapses and her eyes reopen.

They’re silent again.

She doesn’t know what to think, or how she should feel. All she knows is it feels good, and after weeks of feeling bad, she was going to follow that feeling. She feels razor sharp, awake. She feels _alive_.

She gingerly works herself up to perch on her elbows, staring back at him with tousled sex hair. Slowly, making sure he is still watching, she brings her dripping fingers to her lips, running her tongue over the surface of her skin before taking them completely in her mouth, sucking and hollowing out her cheeks.

Lydia’s studying him for a reaction, but besides the slight concave movement of his chest, there is no indication.

She lets her fingers slide out with an obscene ‘ _pop_ ,’ before rising to stretch and sashay to the bathroom.

He rotates in a slow circle, keeping her his line of sight.

Lydia turns to look at him over her shoulder.

“What?” she asks coyly. “You said to eat.”

His arms remain crossed over his chest, but his eyebrow arches, a smirk budding on his lips.

Lydia smirks back, closing the door to the bathroom behind her before her knees give out and she crumples to the floor.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Smut!!
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> http://red-string-anchors.tumblr.com/
> 
> xx


	8. Chapter 8

She can’t look at him, even when he’s assuring her fervently that it’s working.

There’s something to be said for the way her stomach is twisting, endlessly knotting and unknotting at his assurance and pretty, empty words.

“To jest w tobie” _It’s in love with you._

Stiles practically shouts it from the armchair of the Stilinski living room, illuminated by the slowly setting sun. She watches the shadows fall handsomely across his face before she has to look away.

“Just be safe. I need you to be safe because it’s working. I’m swear I’m okay.”

“I want it to be you.” It comes out broken.

He watches her silently, mouth hard but eyes soft. Syrupy and golden in the sun.

“Będzie. Obiecuję. Będzie.”

_It will be. I promise. It will be._

 

* * *

 

 

The air has shifted. It’s palpable.

Lydia can feel it in the way It brews her morning cup of tea. She can sense it in the way It watches her comb her wet hair after a shower.

Stiles’ shell is still cold and pale and his eyes are still deep set. His hair is still twisted manically. His lips are still void of color and cracked. But the eyes are no longer empty.

They’re back to burning. Wide and staring unabashedly at her. They’re _awake._

She has made a move on the chessboard, and the game just got _interesting._

 

 

Sometimes they literally just sit and _watch_ each other from across the room. Lydia is reminded when Void crawled through her bedroom window with the proposition. It had toyed with her mercilessly. Patronizing and flirtatious. It called her names a lover would call her.

It had kissed her.

  
She still doesn’t know who the kiss belonged to. What part had compelled it to happen. Why she let it happen.

She doesn’t know if she even wants to find out.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia has started eating again. Her hair is still limp but her lips are healing. Her hands have stopped shaking. The desire to survive, to live, is awakened once more.  
It hurts like hell, but she’s never felt more alive. Every piece of her thrumming with anticipation.

With nerves.

With the will to fight.

 

* * *

 

This time when she dreams, Stiles isn’t there.

But Scott is.

She knows it’s real, just as she knew when she had first started dreaming of Stiles. She has tapped into a plane that she is not yet aware of, or can control. But here he is.

Scott McCall, True Alpha and best friend, blinking at her in confusion.

She’s sitting on the side of his bed in what looks like a generic hotel room, and he slowly rises to his elbows, squeezing his eyes shut and then open again.

“You’re still searching?”

“Of course.” he says, and it’s cracks, gravelly from sleep. He stares at her for a brief moment before his eyes go wide. He shoots up, flinging himself at her with his arms open.

He can’t reach her of course. There is that same invisible barrier that separates them, just as it separates her from Stiles in those moments between sleeping and waking.

“This is real, isn’t it? This is real. What is this?! Lydia! Lydia, what’s going on?!” Scott bellows, pounding the air frantically.

She soothes him, and absentmindedly wipes her cheeks as the tears in her eyes begin to pour down. But she’s laughing. It bubbles up from inside and she’s laughing and crying because here he is, and never once has he given up, and he is coming to find them.

“I’m sorry.” Lydia gives him a watery smile. “It’s my fault, I’m sorry. They were going to kill him. I was afraid he would disappear. I thought it was the only way to keep a close eye on him.”

“I don’t care. Lydia I don’t care. I’m not mad, I would have done it too. Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Are you safe?” Scott’s words tumble from his lips quickly and his deep brown eyes are wet.

She nods and gives him a painful smile.

“Where are you. I’m going to find you, where are you.”

“Mountains, some kind of small cabin, snow everywhere. North. Uh-uh...deserted. I can see the Aurora Borealis.”

“The Northern Lights?”

“Yeah.”

“Stay there, okay? You’ve got to keep him there.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m not going to kill him. I would never--”

“I know, Scott I know that. I was just worried about Derek and the Argents and the rest of the pack--”

“They’re gone.”

Lydia freezes.

“Two months have gone by since you left. Some have left and gone home. Some don’t care as long as the Nogitsune is far away from Beacon Hills.”

“...It’s just you?”

Scott licks his lips, giving a shaky nod.

He’s alone. He’s been alone for who knows how long. Scott McCall. Traveling the world in search of his best friend because he can’t, can’t, can’t let go.

“He’s my brother, Lydia.” It sounds so raw and aching that it makes something inside Lydia splinter. “I can’t give up on him. And I can’t lose you.”

“I love you Scott. I’ll do everything I can, I promise.”

“...Anyway you possibly have found a way to cure him?”

Lydia sighs contemplatively, running her fingers through the tangled strands of her hair.

“We’ve found a way to communicate without letting it know what we’re talking about. When we were in a Spanish speaking country, Stiles noticed that the nogitsune could speak the language fluently, even though Stiles himself couldn’t. So he deduced that if language worked that way, it had to work in the reverse as well. Stiles started communicating to it in Polish, and it didn’t understand.”

“So...you learned...how to speak Polish?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I ever tell you how fucking brilliant you are?”

She laughs, wholly and unabashed, and it feels incredible. She can’t remember the last time she felt that way.

“Well. We still haven’t figured out how to separate the two. Or how to destroy it.”

“...But you have something up your sleeve.”

The sun is starting to rise from the window, illuminating the hotel room from the ground up. Any minute now she would wake and Scott would be gone, and she’d just have to trust and believe that he’d find them. She did. She did believe.

“Yeah,” Lydia smiles at him, and she’s momentarily blinded by the gentleness of his gaze. She wills herself not to start shaking.

“Yeah...we’ve got something up our sleeve.”

 

* * *

 

This time when the sun sets in the cabin, Lydia makes her way over to the bed, feet quiet and cold on the bare floorboards.

It feels akin to walking the plank, or death row. There is something lascivious and burning and bleak about tonight, and she can’t decipher if it’s her abilities giving her a warning, or the internal fight or flight instinct, honed after millenniums of evolution.

She turns, looking over her shoulder to Stiles.

But it’s not Stiles.

Not really.

Though lately, she finds herself forgetting. Finds herself accepting the darkness instead of fearing it, and it mystifies her and angers her in a way she can’t even begin to sort through. Because Stiles is not the skinwalker, and the skinwalker is not Stiles. But it looks like Stiles, and it talks like Stiles, and sometimes it even peers at her like Stiles. And Stiles is beginning to look like the skinwalker, and talk like the skinwalker, and move like the skinwalker.

They are tangling up together.

It, him, her.

  
“Come to bed with me.” Lydia murmurs into the darkness of the open room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! I've got a lot on my plate, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter! We're so close to the end y'all. Two more chapters to go!
> 
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com  
> xx


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, Violence
> 
>  
> 
> One more chapter to go....

This had always been the plan, of course. And maybe the nogitsune even knew that to be the case. But to pretend like this wasn’t the culmination, to pretend that this wasn’t the outcome that it was meant to be all along, well that was a lie.

Lydia swears that deep inside some dark, shadowy corner, she knew.

She knew the moment he had stepped inside her bedroom. And when he pressed his lips, warm and soft and inviting to her own, working them, opening her up like a flower in bloom, she felt something inside her crack. Like a vase, spilling water droplets, gently beading on the surface until it left her empty inside.

She didn’t feel empty now.

She felt like a string, pulled taut. Humming with anticipation and trepidation. She is prey in a meadow that pauses, raising it’s head to scan the tree line, waiting, muscles contracting under the skin, ready to run.

He doesn’t walk to the bed to follow. He waits until she lays down, looking at him. Then he _stalks_ , sauntering forward, eyes locked on her own.

There is a ghost of a smirk on his lips, because damn it he _knows_. She’s cornered.

Never had she expected to see Stiles’ body move in that way, and it makes her mouth go dry. She watches the cords of muscle in his shoulders and back ripple under his shirt as he crawls slowly forward.

Lydia swears that if it were statistically possible for a healthy young woman to die from a heart attack, she would be that person. She finds herself panting, and quickly shuts her mouth, breath exiting her nose harshly.

He inches forward until he’s hovering, holding his body tight over her own.

“I need you to tell me,” she hears herself whisper, and it crackles in the darkness of the room. “I need you to tell me.”

He looks down at her, and for a brief moment, she can see him. She can see all the way through him. Past the inky holes of his eyes, right to the center. He’s not alone. Void is looking at her, and Stiles is looking at her, and she’s looking back at both of them.

“Kocham Cię,” he says.

And then he’s on her, pressing down.

It feels good. It feels so, so good to have that weight on top of her. It was a weight that she had been craving for months. A weight she could never get from her feverish dreams where she’s divided from Stiles.   
She has _yearned_ for it.

Lydia closes her eyes as his hot breath fans across her cheeks, his fingers combing through her long curls, slightly scratching at her scalp. He repeats the action over and over. Just pushing down on her, threading his fingers through her hair. She feels his lips trail over her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, her forehead. Just barely brushing, warming her skin. Vaguely, she wonders if he can feel her heart hammering through her collarbone. With a start, she realizes it’s not her heartbeat that she’s feeling, but his own, thumping like a pulsing, unrelenting drumbeat.

His heart is quick and heavy like her own. It’s such a _human_ reaction.

Lydia arcs up and presses her lips to his.

She watches as his eyebrows raise, feeling his smirk on her mouth before his bruised eyelids shut, and then he’s kissing her back.  
Lydia marvels in it all. How his long fingers can be so cold when his tongue is so warm. How his hair can be so bedraggled despite her hands carding through it. How long lines form under his jutting cheekbones when she sighs into his mouth.  
How he kisses her like he’s drinking her in.

“Again,” she pleads, breathless and high.

“ _Kocham Cię._ ”

And then he’s moving his large hand from her neck to her breast, giving it a squeeze before continuing  past her stomach, coming to rest between her legs.

When his palm cups her sex, she feels a jolt of electricity shoot through her body, making her heart stutter stupidly in her chest.   
He’s smiling into her neck, clearly enjoying how utterly undone she is under his ministrations. But then again, Lydia reminds herself, so is he. Because his breath is short and she can physically see his pulse at the crook of his throat. Because underneath the twisted lips and the glittering eyes and the dancing fingertips, he’s growling, fighting for control.   
  
He’s grinding into her hip, and she can feel how much he _wants_.  
  
When he pushes aside her underwear and trails a finger through her slick, she lets out a heady whimper that is so wanton it makes her blush, trailing all the way down her chest.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, yes.”

“Do you want it?”

“You know I do, yeah.”  
  
“How much?”

“So badly. I want you so badly.”

His mouth is on hers, deep and licking and dirty, when she moans out, “Fuck, _Stiles_.”   
  
  
  
  
She knows immediately that it’s all over.

He freezes, drawing back, to stare at her. For a hysterical moment, Lydia panics when she realizes she’s in an isolated location with a demon sociopath, alone. And she just pissed it off. But ‘pissed off’ isn’t the right word, because the way it’s looking at her has her breath catch in her throat.

She feels him pull his fingers out of her, achingly slow.

“What did you say, baby?”

She feels like she’s choking on her tongue.

“Who did you just all out for, Lydia?”

He waits for her to answer, but she doesn’t.

“ _Stiles_ , Lydia. You just called out for Stiles.”

In a flash, he’s off of her, standing at the foot of the bed. Lydia watches in a quiet terror as his whole body quivers, head cocking to the side and eyes narrowing.  
She licks her swollen lips, trying to quickly clear the cloud of desire from her mind. This is a dangerous position to be in.

But hasn’t it always been this dangerous? Hasn’t she always known this game would end? Hasn’t she known from the moment she took his hand and they exited into the night, that she was playing with fire?  
  
“I’m so tired of it,” Void rasps, and her eyes snap to his. “So, so tired. So _hungry_!”   
  
His whole body shakes with the word, and Lydia’s body jumps and curls into itself. He’s pacing now, making noises that straddle the line between laughter and rage. She’s never seen him like this, manic and wild and skittish. It’s not Void behavior, typically so quiet and sleek.   
It’s not Void, it’s _Stiles_.

“Lydia Martin,” he’s saying, and Lydia understands he’s not addressing her. “Lydia Martin, Lydia _Martin_.”

He is a broken toy, sputtering and spazzing. Fraying at the end, shooting sparks. She licks her lips, eyes flashing.

“So hungry. Lydia, _so fucking hungry_.”

And that’s when it happens.

His body collapses.   
  
Lydia shoots up onto her hands and knees, heart hammering as Stiles’ body begins to shudder and shake. She watches his back curl, spine arching until he begins to dry heave. He hurls, spewing out a ribbon of gauze. Lydia lets out a shriek, and despite the crippling fear sloshing in her stomach, she throws herself onto the ground beside him, grabbing at his shoulders.

“ _Stiles!_ ”

He’s pulling the wrapping from his mouth with wet eyes, and she can do nothing but stare and be afraid. The gauze pools between them, and Lydia feels her eyes widening so huge and open that they begin to burn.

They widen even further when a hand emerges from the center of the bandages and the body of Stiles Stilinski pulls himself out.

  
  


She has always known what she wanted. She wanted to be valedictorian. She wanted to go to an Ivy. She wanted to win the Fields Medal. She wanted Allison Argent to be her friend for life. She wanted Stiles Stilinski to sleep through the night, and go back to his terrible jokes and endless ramblings.

Now, looking at the two bodies of Stiles before her, she wonders if her life as ever had a truly clear direction or purpose. Lydia wonders if she’s ever been this confused in her entire life.  
It feels like they’re all torn in half. Him, It, Her.  
  
“Stay back,” she rasps, holding her palms out when they both try to approach her with desperate eyes.

“Lydia, it’s me,” he says, vision wet. “I missed you so much, God, please know it’s me!”

The other Stiles stares between them incredulously.

“You’re going to believe that! Lydia, it’s fucking with you! I’m the real Stiles!”

Stiles turns to his mirror image, and they both quake, humming like their bodies contain thunder.

“FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!” Stiles spits, and the other Stiles wipes his mouth with his fist, knuckles white.

She can’t keep her eyes on one for more than a second before the other is pleading for her attention. She knows it will only be a matter of time before their attention is lost completely, and they turn their full focus on the other.

Lydia’s eyes dart around the room, searching for something, anything.

They’re at each other’s throats now, simultaneously clawing and begging, and then it comes. She watches an arm draw back, and the motion immediately moves her, reminding her of an arrow being pulled in a bow.   
It’s the crunch of bone that makes her scramble to the kitchen, hands shaking as she hears the expletives and rage and the sound of fist connecting with body behind her.

Lydia finds it hidden in the back of a drawer and pulls out the long knife.

“Stop!” she screams. “Stop it!”

They’re both on the ground, and Lydia rushes back to their bodies, bare feet slipping on the bloody floorboards.   
  
“Stop it!” she cries out again, but it’s fruitless.

They are entwined, rage meeting rage. All of the anger, the pent up fury, the _void._ All of it spilling out and back into the other.

Lydia takes a shuddering breath and places the tip of the knife to the softness of her stomach.   
  
A new voice thunders through the cabin. 

They freeze. It’s the first new voice they’ve heard in a month, but a familiar voice nonetheless.

The voice of Scott McCall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com
> 
> xx


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'll wither so peel away the bark  
> Because nothing grows when it is dark  
> In spite of all my fears, I can see it all so clear  
> I see it all so clear
> 
> Cover your crystal eyes  
> And feel the tones that tremble down your spine  
> Cover your crystal eyes  
> And let your colors bleed and blend with mine

It would be better if he never existed.

 

His mother had told him so, once. She hadn’t rushed at him with clawing fingers or spat it out like something disgustingly bitter was on her tongue. She said it when the room was quiet; when the light from the sun was halfway in the sky, and the birds were chirping and the cars leaving the hospital parking lot where a hushed  _ zoom _ . It had come out like a confession, and she hadn’t said it to him, but rather the window, where all that beautiful sunlight was streaming.

 

It would be better if he never existed. Sometimes he thought he didn’t exist to begin with. His teachers would ignore his hand that would shoot up in class, so high and frantic that his butt left his seat. Sometimes his dad forgot to pack him lunch, and he would half-heartedly apologize later; a slurred ‘sorry,’ with bleary eyes and painful looking stubble. His lacrosse coach frequently mispronounced his name and he was a permanent fixture on the cold metal of the bench, like an unmovable statue, but able to observe the bustle and excitement of those alive and thriving. Sometimes Lydia Martin didn’t even blink in his direction as he wished her a good morning in the hallway.

 

But there was Scott, and Stiles was needed to solve the riddles of his best friend’s ailment at the time, and then needed to witness his triumphs. And then it wasn’t just Scott that made Stiles feel necessary. Allison had always been kind to him. Kinder than a beautiful girl needed to be at Beacon Hills High School.

 

He missed her. He missed the way she listened. The way Scott was around her, like things were okay for once. The way she brought them all together, a motley crew of weirdos, all united by a commonality. He missed the way that she laughed unabashedly at his jokes, even as everyone groaned and rolled their eyes. Allison was special. The world was a better place when she existed.

 

It would be better if he never existed. Allison would be alive, and Stiles’ dad would’ve had gotten more nights of sleep, and Scott would never have been bitten in the woods because his spastic best friend wouldn’t have begged him to find a dead body in the middle of the night. 

 

They don’t have to go searching for dead bodies anymore. The dead bodies come to them. 

 

He doesn’t know how someone could get over this. He doesn’t know how his body and mind could be hijacked and used for evil, and have the slight chance to come out of this unscathed. It’s an impossibility. But then, so are werewolves. So are magical trees and demon spirits and the love of Lydia Martin. 

 

When Stiles looks at Lydia, she is looking at Scott, and Scott is looking at him. It’s the first time Scott has seen him in the flesh for a very, very long time. It feels like another lifetime ago that they were playing xbox and eating junk food and wondering if they’d make first line tomorrow at practice. Stiles is so tired. 

There is something almost comical in the way Scott’s mouth is open in shock, in the way that his eyebrows are drawn together and so high on his forehead they almost disappear into the thick of his black hair. And then Lydia makes to move to Scott, and her barefeet are slippery from his blood on the floor. 

 

Scott rushes to her, grabbing the knife from her palms, now criss-crossed with wet rivers of scarlet. He embraces her, tightly but briefly before pushing her body behind his own. Stiles watches his claws extract, eyes going red, and then Scott isn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes dance between Stiles and his doppelganger. 

 

The nogitsune shouts, “Scott, Scotty it’s me!”  

 

Stiles knows he should move, should say something, but his shoulders sag and his mouth goes slack and he just wants to close his eyes. It’s exhausting, being torn in two when you don’t even want to be whole to begin with. 

 

Distantly, as though listening from another room, he hears Scott tell Lydia to speak Polish so they would be able to distinguish the real Stiles from the facsimile. But Lydia tells Scott that he had spoken in Polish, and now she wasn’t sure if it understood Polish, or if it was merely parroting a random phrase.

 

_ Kocham Cię _ . I love you. 

 

Stiles remembers the taste of those words on his tongue as  _ they _ promised it to her. It had amazed him how easy it was to be honest when Void wanted something. But Stiles, Stiles had never wanted anything more than he wanted Lydia Martin. And he had her. But he didn’t want her, not like this. 

 

The stark difference between him and the demon was that the demon wanted something from her. Her love, her body, her time. Stiles never wanted anything from Lydia but Lydia, exactly as she was and exactly as she wanted to be. 

 

Maybe she knew that. Maybe that’s why when the nogitsune kept telling her it loved her over and over again, her eyes kept drifting from It’s pleading ones to his. 

 

Stiles watched as she trembled behind Scott, who was ready to pounce on the false Stiles as soon as Lydia gave the word. But they were both so confused, their fear a tangible, permeable thing. They didn’t want to choose the wrong one. They didn’t want to admit that after over a decade of friendship, or even a confession of love, they couldn’t tell the difference between Stiles as he was and Stiles as he was presented. 

 

Beside him, the demon cried and whispered and forced and promised and reasoned. It was disorienting to see a version of himself with blood on a face that was his, but wasn’t, making gestures that were his, but weren’t, saying things he believed in too, but with words that were not his own. 

 

Lydia kept looking at him. Part of him wanted to believe that he could communicate to her in a way that the nogitsune couldn’t. Maybe she could see him.  _ Really _ see him. The good, the bad, the ugly, and then some. Maybe he was understood. Maybe he was needed, even wanted. 

 

Maybe now she knew what he meant when he had yelled at her, lip throbbing and head pounding, that death didn’t happen to her, but everyone around her. And maybe it applied to him.

 

Maybe it wouldn’t be better if he never existed, because she wouldn’t want to exist without him. 

 

 

“I’m going to choose,” Lydia whispers, and then the roaring horrors of the night fade at the sound of her voice. “I’m going to choose, and I’m going to kill the remainder. You are going to let me do this. Do you promise me?”

 

It isn’t the first time he’s marveled at her ability to compartmentalize in a crisis, at her strength and bravery and her will to survive. He feels himself nod, an out of body motion. Next to him, his double does the same. 

 

She steps forward, and Scott moves to grab her arm, but she gently places a hand over his, assuring him that her choice will be the right one. That she’s able to save a life, and take one as well. 

 

Scott trusts her enough to know that she can do this, and that maybe she even needs this. So he hands her the knife, slippery with her own blood. 

 

Her barefeet pat softly on the floor as she makes her way to them, never breaking eye contact before stopping in front of his copy. The demon falls to his knees in front of her, looking up at her with a look of wonderment and awe. Stiles thinks about how he must have looked at her like that a million times over, and how strange it is too see it in person as opposed to in the reflection of her eyes. Perhaps he should feel ashamed at the fragility he sees there, but he’s not. It’s truth. 

 

“ _ Kocham Cię _ ,” the demon murmurs, and Stiles watches as Lydia presses the tip of her knife into the soft crook of his jugular. 

 

She extracts it slowly, and there is a cascade of blood that looks almost black, pouring out of the inflicted wound. If the nogitsune is surprised at her action, it doesn’t show. His eyes didn’t break from hers, even for a moment. 

 

He bleeds out slowly, and when the blood has soaked him completely, he begins to choke, skin going gray. He smiles despite his gagging, and Stiles is struck with the oddness of seeing the pink of his gums completely white. 

 

“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me, Lydia Martin.” 

 

Lydia watches him with eyes that are both wet and dry and soft and hard, all at once. 

 

“For Scott,” she whispers to the slowly crumpling body. “For Stiles. For Allison….for  _ me _ .”

 

And then, the nogitsune who had haunted humankind for a thousand years, and tormented them for what felt like much longer than that, fell to the floor with a very human-like _ thud _ ; an empty shell of bone, and sinew, and flesh, and nothing more. Gone.

 

He doesn’t know how long the three of them stand there in the tiny shack of a cabin, gazing down at the body. Another dead body. 

 

Part of him thinks that there’s no way this is over. It has to be a trick. The nogitsune will come back to haunt him, the exact moment he allows his guard to fall and feel safe. But that moment never comes. He doesn’t quite understand how or why that is, but he surmises that maybe, when he was It and It was her and her was him, that there was enough of Stiles inside to give it what Lydia wanted, regardless of the circumstance.    
  
He supposes that’s called love.

 

 

“What do we do now?” Scott asks, raspy voice jarring against the built silence of the night. 

 

Lydia pulls her gaze from Stiles’ body to Stiles himself, standing alive and whole as one could be. She moves to him and slips her sticky hand, wet with his blood and her own, into his palm. She looks at him, and it’s completely different from the way she looked at the nogitsune, though he can’t put his finger on why. She should hate him, fear him, blame him. But right now, Lydia exceeds expectations because she needs to and because he needs that from her.

 

“We survive.” Stiles answers, and it comes out like a voice that hasn’t been used in years. 

 

And then Scott is moving fast, throwing warm arms around his shoulders and crying into his neck. Lydia is pulled in with them, until it’s just three friends embracing like it’s both the first and last time ever. 

 

They don’t look at the body when they leave. They don’t owe it that. What they owe is to each other, and to the mornings that will follow where they wake up and they’re as pieced together as they can manage for that day.

 

He thinks about the future with the lights off in the airplane cabin as the passengers sleep, blissfully unaware that the three trembling teenagers all wound up in each other have been through an unsurvivable ordeal. He thinks about it with Scott snoring softly on his shoulder, and with his own head on Lydia’s shoulder as she strokes his hair back from his forehead and rubs circles into his hand with her thumb. 

 

It’s a terribly difficult thing, to live each day. But something in Stiles claws itself to the surface, unwilling to be buried. He thinks it’s the desire to exist, and to want to exist, and to be needed to exist. The world is a terrible place, but it can be terribly beautiful too. 

  
He wants to be a part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, it's the end of an era. Thank you so much for sticking around to see this through, even when it was so damn heavy it was suffocating. I was suffering along with you, I promise. 
> 
> Your love and support means the world to me, and I couldn't have finished this without your encouragement. A special thank you to my dear friend Stivvy, who took a particular liking to this fic and even made fanart and recorded a cover of Crystals, a song she thought embodied Skinwalker and whose lyrics are the notes at the beginning of this chapter. 
> 
> You're all so loved dearly, and the world is a better place with you in it. I think I've satiated my desire for angst enough for this lifetime. 
> 
>  
> 
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com xx


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